


Whatever Forever

by ElloPoppet



Category: Marvel, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Animals, Art Embedded, Asgardian Rabbits, Avengers Tower, Bruce Banner Is a Good Bro, Clint Thinks He's Slick, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Humor, In more ways than one, Knitting, M/M, Pet Names, Pining, Slight Harm to Animals, Slow Build, Winterhawk Reverse Big Bang, but he's not, cavity inducing sweetness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-03
Updated: 2019-08-03
Packaged: 2020-07-29 20:54:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20088610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElloPoppet/pseuds/ElloPoppet
Summary: Bucky stared at Clint blankly for a moment longer before continuing. “Sam wanted me to come and ask you if you wanted to help him out in the range. Red Wing’s retrieval mode just got an update, he wants to test it out with your arrows...is there a goddamngoatunder that table, Barton?”The non sequitur didn’t throw Clint, probably because there was, in fact, a goat beneath his dining room table. Clint shuffled to the side and crossed his arms over this chest, blocking the table as best as he could.“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Bucky. You feelin’ alright?”Or, Clint runs a secret animal rescue in the tower. On an unrelated note, Clint is terrible at keeping secrets and Bucky is a goat-whisperer. WinterHawk Reverse Big Bang 2019 Entry with art embedded.





	Whatever Forever

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Trashcanakin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trashcanakin/gifts).

> Hi folks!
> 
> Here is my fic for the WinterHawk Reverse Big Bang 2019!
> 
> I was lucky enough to be matched with the art and prompt by trashcanakin :D 
> 
> Here's to hoping that I did a decent job. Huge thanks to my betas, katshrev and hawkguyandthewinterdude (I also have to credit the latter with helping me manage a few plot points because as it turns out I struggle with keeping the angst to a bare minimum!).
> 
> Thanks for stopping by and enjoy!

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/170205563@N04/48442973022/in/dateposted-public/)

“Hey, Clint? Sam wanted me to come and ask if you-”

Clint jerked, his head banging on the underside of the table. His right aid screeched unpleasantly before stabilizing, and he scrambled backward, reaching up to check for blood on instinct as soon as he was able to stand.

“Damn, Bucky. Warn a guy. Did you have Friday override my security or what?” There was no vitriol in Clint’s words, just simple confusion as to 1. How Bucky was in his apartment, 2. Why Bucky was in his apartment, and 3. How a dude as stocky and sturdy as James Barnes could sneak up on him like a goddamn shadow _in his own apartment_. 

“Uh,” Bucky said, leaning against the wall and cocking an eyebrow, “the door was open?”

Oh.

“Oh. That’s. Sorry. What does Sam want?” Clint checked his fingers. No blood. Win.

Bucky stared at Clint blankly for a moment longer before continuing. “Sam wanted me to come and ask you if you wanted to help him out in the range. Red Wing’s retrieval mode just got an update, he wants to test it out with your arrows...is there a goddamn _goat_ under that table, Barton?” 

The non sequitur didn’t throw Clint, probably because there was, in fact, a goat beneath his dining room table. Clint shuffled to the side and crossed his arms over this chest, blocking the table as best as he could. 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Bucky. You feelin’ alright?”

_bleatbleatbleat_

“Oh futzing hell,” Clint sighed, rubbing his face with his hand. “I can’t get him to come out from under the table. I’ve moved the damn thing all around the dining room and he just goes along with it and I don’t wanna scare him.”

Bucky’s head tilted to one side, his lips pressed together. Clint couldn’t tell if he was trying to contain laughter or if he was debating on calling someone else to handle what was happening inside of Clint’s apartment. 

“You got a bottle?” Bucky finally asked, taking a step forward. He started smoothing his hair back and gathered it at the nape of his neck, producing a hair tie out of thin air to create a low hanging ponytail. Clint glanced upward at the ceiling and prayed for strength. 

He really, _really_ like Bucky’s hair in a ponytail.

“Yeah, I got a few glass ones. His ma was slaughtered just before the farm was shut down for inhumane conditions. I got a buncha milk for him and everything. Let me just-” Clint sidled around Bucky and headed into the kitchen, where Lucky was snoozing lazily on the mat in front of the sink, completely uncaring toward the situation at hand. Clint prepared the bottle of goat’s milk as he had been shown by the humane society. Once satisfied, he walked it back out into the dining room.

There, Bucky sat cross-legged on the floor, the kid bleating softly in his arms where he was curled in Bucky’s lap. The sight brought Clint up short; damn, that was adorable. 

“Here,” Clint said softly, and Bucky didn’t look up from the kid, simply reached up and took the bottle. It took a few tries, but the kid took to the bottle sloppily, and when Bucky looked up at Clint it was with a small, pleased smile. 

“Didn’t realize goat whispering was part of your repertoire,” Clint joked, sliding down to sit on the floor, back against the wall. 

Bucky shrugged. “Plenty of livestock in Wakanda. I liked being outside, liked taking care of the animals. Made me feel good.” Bucky said it so simply that Clint envied him a touch, being able to just name and share his feelings so easily. Therapy was suiting Bucky well. 

“But enough about me and my goat-herding ways. Does Tony know you got this guy in here?” Bucky challenged, lips upturned just enough to signal to Clint that Bucky already knew the answer. 

“I maybe failed to mention it to him? But I mean, he was fine with Lucky, and this little one here is going to go to an actual farm soon, once he’s ready. I just figured, being on sabbatical and all that I could do something...useful, still.” Clint rapped his knuckles on the floor. “You gonna tell him?”

There was no hesitation as Bucky shook his head. “Nah. I’m more wonderin’ how Friday hasn’t ratted you out yet.” The goat backed away from the bottle and rested its head on Bucky’s knee, sated and no longer shaking. If Bucky put out heat the way Steve did, Clint knew that the kid was probably warm and toasty.

Clint wasn’t jealous. _He wasn’t._

“Friday and I have an agreement,” Clint said happily. “Isn’t that right, Lady Love?”

“I calculate no harm in it, Sergeant Barnes,” Friday’s accented voice filled the room, “although I may need to follow protocol and let Boss know that the parrot has nearly chewed through the window security wires.”

Clint face-palmed. Rather than one cocked eyebrow, both of Bucky’s brows skyrocketed upward. 

“So discreet, Friday, thanks,” Clint muttered.

“You’re so welcome, Agent Barton,” came her reply, and while Clint really did love the AI gal he also wished at times that there wasn’t as much Stark snark programmed into her. 

“You got a bird flyin’ around here too? You turnin’ the tower into a zoo? Gonna charge admission?” Bucky’s tone was dry and teasing, and Clint debated on whether or not he should show him the ball python that was curled up, warm and secure in his bedroom. Clint didn’t answer, waiting until the goat was fully asleep before nodding toward the dog bed that Clint had set up in the corner. 

“If you can get him down there, I got something else I’m taking care of in the other room. You afraid of reptiles?” Clint stood and extended a hand toward Bucky.

The look on Bucky’s face was part disbelief, part mischief. 

“You’re unbelievable, Barton.” He reached up and curled his vibranium hand around Clint’s- careful not to jostle the animal in his right arm- and Clint pulled him up. Clint watched him settle the kid into the bed gently before he walked back up to Clint, motioning him forward. 

“Well? Lead the way, Doctor Dolittle,” Bucky urged, and Clint grinned.

*

As it turned out, Bucky was really good with the animals. 

Not that it was a surprise to Clint. Bucky was good with living beings in general, given the amount of care that he took when handling them. He was gentle with everyone, thoughtful and patient (though sometimes not with himself). It made sense to Clint. When he had come back into his right mind following the debacle with Loki, he had been cautious around his friends for a while too, afraid to hurt them. He could see Bucky acting much the same, only _he_ was trying to deprogram over 70 years of being used as a weapon, rather than a few days. 

Clint ached for him in a way, but was proud of him in so many other ways. 

Bucky came up to his apartment in the Tower multiple times during the days and nights following his discovery of Clint’s hidden animal rescue (also known as the Misfit Zoo, as Bucky had coined the apartment). He helped mainly with the goat, but also started taking Lucky on walks, and teaching the parrot how to call Clint a Fucker. He stayed away from the snake for the most part, claiming that he couldn’t get a good read on him. 

Clint had learned that it was likely best to try and keep Bucky away from the snake’s care altogether after Bucky had befriended what was supposed to be a feeder rat on the way home from the pet store. Bucky helped Clint find a frozen rodent supplier online and looked decidedly pleased when Clint placed an order and made room in his freezer for snake food storage. 

Bucky kept the rat at Clint’s apartment. “It reminds me of Natalia,” he said, petting the black rat that had snuggled into his hoodie pouch. “It watches me all the time, he’s too self-aware. I like him a lot but can’t sleep with it in my place. Keep him here for me? Away from Belly Burn?”

Clint had gotten a call from Kate when a tenant had abandoned their apartment in Bed Stuy without a word, having left the snake and parrot behind. The snake had a bad burn on its belly from an uncontrolled heating pad beneath its tank, hence the name. 

Nothing was wrong with the parrot, aside from the fact that he was an Asshole and was named as such. 

And so Clint gathered the necessary supplies for NatRat, who lived in a two-level enclosure with tubes and ramps and wheels inside the second bedroom of the apartment, where Asshole’s cage was also homed. Belly Burn spent his days curled in his warm tub in Clint’s room. Lucky ruled the roost and became protective over WinterGoat, a name that Bucky had spent three days arguing against but one that Clint had ultimately decided was going to stick until he went to his new farm. 

Clint enjoyed taking care of them and enjoyed having Bucky around even more. They weren’t too much of a hassle. The animals weren’t, at least. Bucky, on the other hand, made Clint’s heart do funky, flippy catapults, which was indeed a hassle, but one that could be ignored for the most part. Clint still had plenty of time to shoot loose in the range, spar with the team, and provide tactical planning assistance to the team and other agents - though he stuck to his guns about being self-benched for a bit. He even made it out to Bed Stuy a few times in the following week to check up on Kate and make sure the building was still standing under the watchful eye of the apartment manager that he had hired. 

He had enough animals. He lived in the Tower with his family, his friends, and his...and Bucky. No more rescues, he decided on a Tuesday night before going to sleep in the wee hours of the morning. 

No more.

Until the next morning, when his phone vibrated next to his head at ass o’clock in the morning. Clint groaned and popped in an aid, asking Friday to pick up his call. 

“It’s Clint, who are you and did you know that the sun isn’t up yet?”

“Clint, it’s Bucky. I’m sorry for wakin’ you but I’m out for my run and I heard this sound and I checked it out and there’s this cat, Clint and I’m really kinda freakin’ out, she’s, I think she’s a she, something’s wrong with her leg and she’s yellin’ like it really hurts and it looks kinda crushed and I don’t know-” Bucky’s words tumbled out quickly and quietly panicked, throwing Clint off. He was used to Bucky keeping a cool head, a calm tone. Shit, Clint had seen Bucky bust his knee wide open before on mission and he had basically shrugged it off. This? Clint was not used to this. 

“Hey, whoa, okay, Buck. Listen. How close can you get to her?”

“I mean, I’m right here next to her. She’s not goin’ anywhere, not on this leg.” 

“Okay. Does she look like she could be rabid? Can you even get rabies?” The second question spilled out immediately after the first, without thought, but whatever. Clint was curious. 

“One, I forgot to complete my fuckin’ veterinary training when I was living my life in a cryo-chamber so I don’t know if the damn cat has rabies, and two...I honest to God don’t know, pal, but I’m guessin’ you want me to pick her up so here’s to hopin’ that the answer to both of your questions is no.”

Clint listened to Bucky shuffle around a bit from where he was now sitting in bed, both aids in and turned on fully, awake enough to run a marathon. 

“Alright. When you’ve got her, there’s a 24-hour emergency vet about six blocks from the Tower, on 29th. I’ll have Friday program your GPS. How far are you?”

Bucky took a deep breath and there was some more jostling, the sounds of yowling happening in the background. Clint flinched. 

“I don’t know, 6, 7 miles? I can get there stat though. You gonna meet me?”

7 miles. Fucking super soldiers and their runs.

“Yeah. Clothes, coffee, see you there in a few. Careful Buck, kay?” Clint climbed out of bed, shuffling around for a pair of jeans and/or socks. 

Bucky huffed, his breathing loud. Obviously running. “I won’t hurt the cat, Clint, Christ.”

“Not what I meant. Don’t let her hurt you, jackass. See you in a few. Friday, end call.” Clint tossed a shirt on, slipped on his shoes, and locked the door behind him on his way out. 

*

“What are we gonna name her?” Clint asked, adjusting and readjusting in the awful plastic chairs in the lobby of the vet’s office. Bucky was quiet next to him, in contemplation Clint figured until he looked over to see Bucky gaping at him, his eyes dancing. 

“That’s it? I don’t gotta beg?” Bucky asked, and Clint snorted. 

“Really? You ran this cat all the way here and we’re payin’ to have her fixed. She’s not chipped and doesn’t have a collar. You think I would make you leave her here? Hell, in a few minutes she’s going to be practically tailor-made for you, missing limb and all.”

It was Bucky’s turn to huff out a bit of laughter, and he ran his gloved hand over his face. He looked tired, Clint noted, not thinking about it too much as he flung an arm over Bucky’s shoulder and pulled him in closer until they were pressed side to side. Bucky’s head immediately found Clint’s shoulder and he sighed, wiggling until he settled comfortably. 

“I feel bad for her. It’s not easy to adjust to missing an arm,” Bucky said softly, and Clint squeezed his upper arm. 

“Good thing she’ll have an empathetic owner, then. You gonna keep this one in your apartment? I don’t know how well she and Asshole will get along.” Both Clint and Bucky froze as the door to the office opened, a woman towing a cat carrier in her arms making her way into the waiting room. She smiled at them tiredly; everybody in the damn building looked tired and stressed which, Clint thought, was pretty appropriate. Clint smiled back and nodded his head, started to draw mindless shapes on the arm of Bucky’s hoodie where it was soft beneath his fingers. 

“Yeah, I guess I should probably keep her with me. You gotta help me get her set up, though. Never had a pet before,” Bucky said, sounding a bit uncertain. Clint pinched him and Bucky growled. 

“Never had a pet, my ass. You’re practically co-owner to a fuckton of random animals, Buck, and a distant acquaintance to a snake even. You’re great with them.”

Clint didn’t see Bucky smile, but he felt it instead, which he figured was just as good.

*

Clint took to visiting Bucky’s apartment as Tripod healed from her amputation. Clint would wake up, do his morning rounds to feed the animals, walk Lucky (and Wintergoat sometimes, depending the time of night/day and whether or not he thought he would get busted by the police, the media, or Tony), and then head up to Bucky’s floor with two cups of coffee, which Bucky would accept at the door sleepily. 

“You know, caffeine shouldn’t even do anything for me. I think it’s all in my head. What’s that called? Placebo effect?” Bucky was saying one morning a few weeks after the acquisition of Tripod. The cat was lazing on Clint’s lap, stretched out for belly scratches, mewing and purring contentedly. Bucky was trying to engage her in a game with a small stuffed mouse, and Clint was delighted as Tripod used her remaining front leg to bat the toy out of Bucky’s hands. It fell beneath the table and nobody moved to retrieve it. 

“Yeah, that’s what it’s called. Or maybe it’s just seeing my busted up face in the morning that gets you all energetic,” Clint joked. A thrill raced up his spine at the brush of Bucky’s fingers against his own as Bucky took to petting circles into Tripod’s chest while Clint kept scratching. It was becoming...problematic, the heady, electric feeling that Clint got around Bucky. He figured that it would have gone away over time, gradual exposure or some nonsense that his old therapist used to spout, but no. On the contrary, having Bucky around nearly constantly only made it worse (better?) and Clint wondered absently what Bucky would do if he asked for a kiss. 

Bucky snorted at Clint’s bad attempt at a joke and used his hand to flick the side of Clint’s wrist. 

“Maybe you’re right, old man. It’s always an exciting way to start my day, wonderin’ what kinda black and blue you’ll be when I see you.” Clint looked over as Bucky spoke, to where Bucky leaned back against the couch cushion and closed his eyes, a small smile playing on his lips. Tripod rolled over on Clint’s lap and stood unevenly, choosing to pounce over to Bucky’s lap instead of trying to make the walk. The cat curled into a ball in the crook of Bucky’s vibranium arm instantly and Clint ached to his bones with the feeling of warm, sickly sweet domesticity. 

Clint swallowed. “Who are you callin’ old man, Barnes? You were born in 1917.”

Bucky’s grin grew wider, eyes still closed. _Fuck, oh god, I love this bastard so much_. 

“Yeah, well. We all can’t be as well preserved as me,” Bucky said dryly, and Clint let out a peal of surprised laughter. He settled deeper into the couch, knee knocking against Bucky’s. Bucky knocked his back intentionally. 

“Want to order pizza?” Clint asked suddenly, because he was hard-pressed to think of a better way to start his morning than sharing body heat with Bucky on that couch, coffee in hand, sky gray outside, a pizza box open between them. He would probably go to his place and grab Lucky, the only thing that could possibly make the situation more enjoyable. 

“Clint. It’s 8:30 in the morning.”

“I know a place that delivers always. Night or day, day or night. They’re fit for sainthood, babe.”

Clint watched Bucky’s cheeks grow a delightful pink before he bit his lip and opened his eyes, aiming them at Clint. Clint’s heart beat painfully in his chest. 

“Extra cheese?” Bucky whispered. “And you should probably get the mutt in here, too. I feel like Lucky’ll just _know_ if we have pizza without him.”

_So. Goddamn. Much._

Clint pulled out his phone and ordered the pizza, giving Friday a rest for the morning, and tried to relish in the way his belly swooped when Bucky whined as Clint hurled himself off of the couch to go get Lucky.

*

Apparently, there was a full dam holding Bucky back from showering Clint with verbal affections that Clint hadn’t known about, but had accidentally destroyed with his ‘babe’ slip up on the morning of Pizza and Coffee Breakfast. It became evident in the way that Bucky seemed to take every single opportunity to make Clint feel like burning up with desire and/or embarrassment, no matter if they were alone or around the others. 

“Hey darlin’, could you pick up some cat food when you take Wintergoat on his next walk?”

“I don’t know what you’re trying to do, sweetheart, but the plan is to run your ass off rainbow road the first chance I ge-HA! Take that!”

“Can you cover 45 degrees South, sweet thing?”

That last one happened while out on mission with the rest of the team, a one-off that Clint had agreed to join due to Thor being off-world and Sam dealing with a crisis at the VA. Clint was so engaged in hitting his targets and following Bucky’s request that he didn’t notice the comms go deadly quiet until Wanda spoke up. 

“Well, this is an interesting development.” Clint could hear the smile in her voice and aw, happy Wanda, yes.

But wait. 

“Shouldn’t you all be focusing on your jobs right about now?” Clint bit back, releasing a boomerang arrow from off of the ledge of the building that he, Bucky, and Nat were using as their vantage point. 

“You mean this job, the one you’ve basically retired from, or your other job?” Tony’s voice asked sweetly, followed by a repulsor shot. 

Clint winced. “What the hell are you on about, Stark?”

“Code names on the comm, Hawkeye!” Steve’s voice cut in. Clint rolled his eyes, because oh. Right. 

“Oh, I dunno, I might be on about the fact that you’ve been running an animal rescue in my tower, or maybe I’m talking about you training the Winter Soldier as a goat’s maid. One can’t be certain.” 

Bucky drew in a huff of breath and Clint spluttered. He thought about denying it, arrows still flying while Bucky and Nat reloaded their weapons nearly in tandem, but knew that he was all but completely busted. 

“I knew I shouldn’t have come out on mission,” Clint grumbled. “How’d you know?”

Tony barked out laughter loud enough that Clint figured he would have heard it without the comms. “Give me more credit than that! Friday isn’t the only one who sees things in the Tower, Birdbrain. I have these things? Called eyes? And also a nose. And also one might say I’m a genius, and that means I can do simple things like putting two and two together.”

“Guys, can we discuss this later? When maybe, oh, I don’t know, we aren’t being attacked by...whatever these things are?” Natasha asked in between shots. Clint felt his cheeks heat. 

“Yeah, Widow, just...do we gotta get rid of ‘em?” The legitimate echo of worry and pain in Bucky’s voice made Clint’s heart constrict, and he nearly fumbled his arrow. Nearly. He paused and awaited Tony’s answer with bated breath. 

Tony sighed dramatically. “C’mon. I do actually have a heart, fellas. Actually, I have something that you might be able to help me out with. A pet project, if you will.”

Everybody groaned over the comms, Steve the loudest. 

“That was terrible, Tony,” Steve remarked. 

“Code names over the comms, sweetums,” was Tony’s syrupy reply, and when Clint took a split second to look behind his shoulder at Bucky, he caught Bucky doing the same.

*

That conversation led to Bucky and Clint adopting a teacup piglet. It had been gifted to Tony by a farming community upstate after Tony donated a Stark Industries water filtering system to be installed beneath the town, making their lead-laden water palatable and safe to drink. Bucky had been in Clint’s apartment at the time, Tripod lazing around his neck while the two of them stood side by side in the bathroom, using the oversized bathtub to clean and sterilize all of the animal’s feeding dishes. Bucky’s hair was tied back and his sleeves were pulled up, he had called Clint “sugar” a few minutes prior and Clint was trying to calculate how to express his bordering-on-obsessive _want_ when Tony strolled into the bathroom, no warning from Friday. 

“Do piglets like bubble baths?” was how Tony announced his presence, and both Clint and Bucky froze, arms (and prosthetic) up to their elbows in soapy water. 

“Did he say piglet?” Bucky whispered to Clint, who closed his eyes and counted to three before extracting himself from his task and turning around to face Tony, who extended the small pink creature toward Clint with one hand. Tripod took that as her queue to jump as gracefully as she knew how from Bucky’s shoulders, after which she sprinted her adorable three-legged sprint the hell out of the room. 

“Aw, fuck. He’s cute,” Clint whined, wishing that he wasn’t so cute. “Tony, you know that he’s going to get huge, right? The name is supremely misleading.” 

Tony grinned and snapped the gum he was chewing. “Oh, so you can keep the bleating barnyard animal here, but not this guy? I can always build him a spot somewhere. Add a wing for your creatures, maybe.”

Clint took the pig gently out of Tony’s grasp and held him, squealing, against his chest. “Yeah, but Wintergoat’s gone this month, ready to go to a farm. The others won’t be around forever either, Tony.”

Bucky made a whining noise in the back of his throat as he stepped forward, shaking soapy water bubbles all over the floor before reaching out to scritch behind the pig’s ears. 

“We’re keepin’ some of ‘em though, right? Tripod and Lucky?”

“Don’t be a dumbass, babe. Of course we’re gonna keep them. Maybe even NatRat, too. He’s spunky.” Clint winked and Bucky bit back a smile. When Clint looked back at Tony, he was openly grinning, eyes flickering between the two of them. 

“This?” Tony said, wagging a finger between Clint and Bucky, “adorable. Hold onto that little thing for me, maybe it can go live the high life on the farm with the other livestock.” Tony turned to leave, before halting at the bathroom door. “It’s not one of those slaughterhouses, is it?”

Clint made a strangled noise and Bucky scoffed, offended. 

“Course not! Like we would send any of them to get killed. Jesus, Stark,” Bucky bit out, defensive. Clint’s heart melted in his chest. 

“Kay then. Just wanted to make sure, the oinker being cute and a gift and all. Alright.” Tony flung up a peace sign and disappeared from sight, leaving Clint clutching the pig in his arms while Bucky continued to pet it’s soft, pink head absentmindedly. 

After a while, it was Bucky who broke the silence. “I’ve been lovin’ on ‘em so hard that I guess I hadn’t thought about what would happen when they were ready to leave. Pretty sure most of them are ready to go, huh?” Bucky raised his eyes up to meet Clint’s, and Clint felt the same pain in his chest. 

“Yeah, hun. They’re about ready. We should look into finding forever homes for the ones we don’t plan on keepin’.” Clint kept his voice gentle and, almost without thinking, reached out with the hand not holding firmly onto the piglet and ran his fingers over the back of Bucky’s head, resting his hand over the back of Bucky’s neck. 

Bucky sighed and moved forward, tipping their foreheads together, the pig a warm weight between them. 

“We could do a charity adoption event? I’m sure Tony would be able to whip something together with PR. Donate the funds to real shelters,” Bucky suggested, the breath of his words ghosting over Clint’s mouth. 

Clint swallowed.

“Yeah. I think that’d be real nice, Buck. Maybe,” Clint licked his lips and Bucky’s eyelashes, full and lush, were so close that Clint could nearly feel them when Bucky averted his eyes downward to watch Clint’s mouth. 

“Maybe,” Clint continued, “we can have a real shelter, someday. You and me. After all...after all this superhero nonsense. I won’t be young forever, you know.” Clint tried to end with a joke, the heaviness crushing him from the inside out.

“I might be,” Bucky said, finally, _finally_ closing the gap between them, pressing his lips lightly to Clint’s, “which is a good thing. You’ll need a strapping young man around to help take care of the strays.”

Clint, with electricity zipping through him from his head to his toes, used his hand on Bucky’s neck to crash them together into a far harsher, messier, _needier_ kiss. 

Bucky tasted sweet and smoky. Clint figured that he himself tasted like coffee and toast. 

Together, they were delicious. 

Clint could have stayed there forever, in the apartment bathroom that all but belonged to both of them at this point, a bathtub full of food dishes, Bucky’s mouth warm and pliant under his, a squealing piglet held in his arm between them….

...oh.

They broke apart, the piglet starting to squirm, and Clint laughed. 

“What are we gonna name this one, for the time being?” he asked. When he looked up, Bucky’s eyes were shining. 

“Hamomile seems like a good name for a teacup pig,” Bucky said, and Clint wanted to hit him as hard as he could for just how _terrible_ it was. He refrained, choosing instead to grin and agree, at the risk of dropping Hamomile on the ground. 

*

“Dr. Banner?” Bucky called out, hesitating to cross the threshold to the lab. There were lights on but no music playing, a sure guarantee that Tony was absent. Bucky liked Tony well enough, had practically grown fond of him by this point, but he was glad to be catching Bruce on his own. 

“I keep telling you, Buck. Call me Bruce,” the Doctor called back, stepping out from behind a piece of equipment so completely foreign to Bucky that he didn’t even try to guess its purpose. Bruce’s hair was freshly cut, the salt and pepper shining brightly under the lights, his face open and inviting. Bucky smiled at him shyly and stepped forward to the table where Bruce was leaning patiently. 

Bucky liked Bruce, a lot. He respected the hell out of him, found his presence calming, and often enjoyed sharing quiet spaces with him: napping or reading in the room wherever Bruce happened to be knitting, or meditating, or cooking. The only barrier left between acquaintance and friendship remained the Other Guy. The first time that Bucky had come across the Hulk had been an utterly terrifying moment, and whether it was Bucky’s PTSD or a remnant of the survival instincts programmed into him over time, all he knew was that when he thought of the Hulk, he became claustrophobic. 

He was working on it in therapy. 

“Right. Hi, Bruce. I wanted to ask you for something. For a favor?” Bucky cleared his throat halfway through, strengthening his resolve. Bruce simply nodded his head, encouraging Bucky to go on. 

“I was wondering if you might have some time to maybe teach me how to knit?” Bucky’s request came out smooth and strong. 

Bruce regarded him with a slightly furrowed brow and a curious look for a half-beat before his face broke out in a slow, wide grin. 

“I would love to. I think you’ll really enjoy it, it’s very sensory and calming, and oh! I have a set of knitting needles that I can dip into a magnetizing bath so that you won’t fumble it with your arm. Would a metallic pair of needles be okay? I could even do red. Or…”

As Bucky watched Bruce start to hustle back around the lab table, babbling a few words that Bucky understood and a few that he really didn’t, Bucky stepped fully into the room and allowed the door to close behind him, the feeling of full welcome blanketing around him in the lab. 

*

Tony hadn’t really blinked when Clint approached him later in the week to ask him about the possibility of holding an adoption event for charity. After having acquired Hamomile, as well as an abandoned golden retriever and orange tabby that Steve and Sam had found on a run, Clint’s apartment was close to bursting at this point, spurring him onward to take a few planning steps of his own concerning the event. Clint had reached out to the owner of the farm that would be taking in Wintergoat that month, asking them if they had the space and wherewithal to hold the event on their property. The farmer and his wife had readily agreed. 

Tony _did_ blink, multiple times and in quick succession, when Clint asked if he could get the PR team and event planners on Stark’s payroll to whip something together in a matter of two weeks. 

“I know I might seem like I’m magic, but I’m really not, Eagle Eye. If you want the kind of turnout that you usually see at my shindigs, you’re going to have to give us at least a month.”

Clint shook his head. “No, Tony. We don’t need a million uppity people in suits and...whatever they’re called...cocktail dresses? We need families, folks that really want to help these animals. There aren’t a lot of them, just a few, seven and possibly an Asgardian rabbit if I was reading Thor’s text right? He swears that they’re just like our rabbits, but I dunno man, what if they’re like-”

Tony snapped his fingers in Clint’s face. “Barton. Focus.” 

Clint clamped his jaw shut and crossed his arms over his chest. He glared down at Tony, the short asshole, and waited him out. 

Tony sighed and rubbed his face with a greasy hand, leaving streaks that Clint refused to laugh at. “Fine. I’ll get everyone on it. We’ll make it a team affair, attract some publicity for people who just want to donate. I’ll have Friday do background checks for anyone who buys an invite with interest in the animals, with informed consent, of course.”

“Of course,” Clint repeated dryly. 

“Where’s your Super Soldier Tinker Spy Boy Toy? He’s been scarce this week,” Tony spun the conversation suddenly. Clint felt his cheeks redden but the usual denial that he had been spouting for weeks (months?) didn’t spew out of his mouth when he opened it. 

“I haven’t seen him much, either. Says he’s workin’ on a surprise, been holed up in his apartment for the most part when he’s not helping with the animals.”

Tony’s eyebrows raised. “A surprise from Bucky? I don’t know if you should be pissing your pants with excitement or fear.”

A surprised burst of laughter erupted from Clint’s throat. 

“Honestly, Tony? Same.”

*

A week passed, the Asgardian rabbit came to join the herd (Clint couldn’t immediately tell the difference between the rabbit and a typical Midgard rabbit, with the exception of the missing hind foot, the reason Thor had thought to rescue the creature in the first place), and Bucky was still mostly MIA. Clint decided to pay Bucky and the cats a visit after feeding the dogs (Lucky was hesitant about sharing his space with Cap, the retriever, but adjusted fine enough for the temporary upheaval). Clint was granted immediate access to Bucky’s apartment, where he found Bruce curled up in one corner of Bucky’s couch, surrounded by yarn. Bucky was on the other side of the room, back to Clint, struggling like hell to fit something over Tripod’s head. 

“What kind of crafty fuckery is happening?” Clint asked, amused and utterly confused at the scene in front of him. Bruce smiled but didn’t answer, just kept knitting away, and Bucky let out a satisfied sound before turning to face Clint, the cat in his arms looking cozy and bitter about it. 

“I made Tripod a sweater,” Bucky blurted out, the adorable motherfucker. And indeed, Bucky had made the cat a sweater. Clint walked toward him, reaching out to scratch Tripod’s head and kissing Bucky lightly on the cheek. When he was able to fully observe the knitted, crooked, loose sweater, Clint’s heart clenched in his chest but goddamn it _he would not cry._

“Aw, babe, how futzing cute is that? She’s a little you!” Clint crooned, lightly touching the incredibly wonky knitted red star that rested over Tripod’s stump. The rest of the sweater had holes for her other three legs and was a gunmetal gray, and it was the single greatest moment in Clint’s life thus far. 

“You like it?” Bucky asked, handing over the cat, sounding excited. “Because I made something for Lucky, too.”

Clint looked on with interest as he snuggled Tripod close to his chest, calmed by the warm weight of the cat in his arms and the _clink clink clink_ of Bruce knitting a few feet away. Bucky sifted through a pile of knitted goods and triumphantly held up a larger, open chested sweater vest, black with Clint’s purple insignia on the back. 

“I know Luck’s ribs are still sore sometimes so I figured a full sweater might not be the best, but for winter walks do you think he’d wear it? Think it’d keep him warm?” Bucky asked, flesh and metal fingers both dancing along the hem where he held it up toward Clint. 

Clint swallowed harshly, a knot in his throat that hadn’t been there a moment ago. 

“Yeah, Buck. He’ll love it. It’s great.” Clint’s voice came out soft, and Bucky smiled. Bruce cleared his throat. 

“I’m gonna...go,” Bruce exclaimed, setting whatever it was that he was working on down onto the coffee table. “I’ll come back in the morning and we’ll finish up?” 

Bucky nodded. “Thanks, Bruce. I won’t touch anything, scout’s honor.”

Bruce nodded, waved at the two of them, and the moment that Bucky’s door sealed the rest of the world away, Clint looked Bucky in the eye and told him that he loved him, because how could he not love a man so perfect?

*

“What the hell, Barnes? This is just rude, man.” Sam knelt down to pat the top of Wintergoat’s head, letting the animal lick his fingers. No doubt Sam was referencing the knitted pair of goggles draped over Wintergoat’s horns, a cloth replica of his own. Or perhaps he was commenting on the sweater on the goat’s back, a knitted pair of wings sewn on and hanging down the side. “You tryin’ to say that I look like this goat? You makin’ fun of my teeth?”

Bucky was holding his stomach and laughing by that point at the stoic tone of Sam’s voice, a tone that could barely cover the delight that existed beneath it. 

“It’s more the big, soulful eyes, Wilson,” Bucky joked, and Clint watched the comment crack Sam’s exterior, the corner of his lips turning upward. 

“You’re an asshole,” Sam said. Bucky shoved him, and Clint kept walking down the row of animals on display, not wanting to miss a single reaction from his teammates as they took in the glorious project that Bruce and Bucky had worked tirelessly on over the last few weeks. 

Families and folks of all different ages had started to trickle in, some deigning to simply drop checks or cash into the donation boxes set up at each of the adoptable animal’s stations, others flashing their bright blue badges in order to get up close with the animals (the ones who had submitted their information ahead of time for Tony to run background checks). Clint stood back and watched Steve kneel down next to the golden retriever that he was responsible for, the one with a blue knitted cowl atop his head and a Cap frisbee in his mouth, which the dog was trying to get the little girl in front of him to take, no doubt to throw. 

To his left, Wanda sat criss-cross applesauce on the grass within a fenced-in structure, the large orange tabby cat stretched between her and a punk-looking kid sitting across from Wanda. The kid reached forward and scratched beneath the cat’s chin, his fingers obviously hitting the right spot as the cat rolled over into his outstretched hands, deep red sweater looking warm, airy, and cozy. Maybe Clint could ask Bruce to knit him a big clunky sweater. Or maybe Bucky.

Aw.

Asshole perched dutifully on Vision’s shoulder in the pen next to Wanda’s. Clint paid attention to the way that Vis gazed longingly at the Witch, paying the parrot no mind as he pecked at the side of Vision’s head. The parrot wore a cape made from tissue paper, one to match Vis.

(“Asshole’s too light, don’t wanna weigh him down or choke him with yarn,” Bucky had explained patiently to Clint when he had asked why Bucky was trying to knot tissue paper around the parrot, who was throwing some awfully colorful language in Bucky’s direction the entire time.)

(Fucking _Bucky,_ man. Thoughtful effervescent bastard that he was.)

Clint continued to walk down the aisle of pens, some open, others closed, laughing and trying (failing) to hold back his grins as he watched his chosen family with the donors, the animals’ potential families. It was so damn nice, really, to see the team smiling, relaxed, and casual, out in the sunshine and crisp Autumn air. 

“Clint Francis Barton. A word.” 

Uh oh. 

Nat _wasn’t_ smiling, come to find out. Clint hurried past Thor’s station, doing a double take to see that yes, the God of Thunder himself was holding the rabbit up into the air Lion King-style, tiny fabric Thor helmet with yellow-tinted ears poking through and all. Thor’s voice boomed over the small crowd as Clint hustled over to Natasha, something about “mighty rabbit” and “all of the luck he needs coursing through his veins.”

“You rang?” Clint asked good-naturedly as he approached Nat’s station, which consisted of a chair, NatRat’s cage, and a giant clear exercise ball. Natasha thrust something toward Clint from where she was sitting in the chair, one leg crossed over the other. 

“Here’s a check for the stupid rodent,” Natasha spat out bitterly. Clint felt his eyes grow wide as he completed a visual sweep of the area. 

“Did you seriously lose your charge, Tasha?!” Clint said, feeling a touch panicked. Within a fraction of a second Bucky was at his side, hand’s curling around Clint’s upper arm. 

“Look more closely, Solnishko,” Bucky murmured in Clint’s ear, and Clint zeroed back in on Natasha, who seemingly couldn’t decide between being amused or pissed. A small flurry of movement at her throat caught Clint’s attention, and he breathed a sigh of relief.

“You wanna adopt NatRat?” Clint asked slowly, looking down at the check, gratitude flooding his body at the generous donation. Clint looked back up at where the rat nibbled at Natasha’s earlobe from where he was snuggled in her hair, feet resting on her shoulder. 

“Obviously. The ridiculous thing is smart. He’s got an attitude.” Natasha paused, unable to keep from smiling. “We’ve bonded.”

Clint was _floating_. 

Things became hectic after that, more and more people pouring in through the farm’s gates until capacity had been reached, every ticket scanned by Tony’s event hosts. Waitstaff ambled around, offering sandwiches, cider, water, and beer. Both Clint and Bucky voiced their appreciation to Tony for throwing together such a welcoming, down to earth event for the animals and to raise money for local shelters. 

“Sure thing, kids,” Tony said absently, passing Hamomile to the arms of a flannel-clad woman and her partner, who donned the baddest-ass black leather dress that Clint had ever seen. The pig snuggled the woman loudly, a bit of the berry-stain that Bruce had used to draw a replica of Tony’s facial hair onto his face rubbing off on her shirt. 

“Does this lil thing come with ‘im?” the woman asked, stroking Hamomile’s head, plucking at the knitted blue arc reactor on the pig’s back, held in place with two stretchy bands around his front legs. “It’s awful cute, and my wife here’s a big fan, Mr. Stark.”

“It sure does, ma’am,” Bucky responded from beside Clint. “I made that one myself, and if you want it, it’s yours.”

The farmer’s wife grinned. “How cool is that? How kind of you, Mr. Barnes.”

Clint watched Bucky’s cheeks flush beautifully and he reached out to wrap his hand around Bucky’s, giving it a squeeze that caused Bucky’s face to light up with the loveliest of smiles. Clint didn’t miss the way the farmer elbowed her wife and nodded toward them, but Bucky didn’t seem to notice, or give a shit either way. When Clint went to withdraw his hand, Bucky held on tighter and pulled Clint away, walking him toward the end of the line where Bruce was talking to a group of kids and their parents. Belly Burn was hanging out, draped around Bruce’s neck, his knitted purple Noodle Suit (as Clint had deemed it) making him look all too much like the Hulk. 

“Happy said we’ve brought in over a million already, for the shelters,” Bucky said as they reached a large tree at the end of the drive. Bucky leaned his back against it and rather than dropping Clint’s hand, he reached out with his prosthetic to grab Clint’s other. “I gotta say, doin’ something this good is makin’ me feel like a little bit of the bad I carry around with me isn’t as suffocating, anymore.”

“You’re good, Buck,” Clint interjected immediately. “When you’re you, you’re nothing but good, baby. Cross my heart.”

Bucky sighed and leaned forward, stealing a small kiss from Clint. “You’re good too, ya know? You’re real good, sugar. ‘M real lucky to have you.”

Clint leaned into Bucky’s space, sinking his head down until it rested on Bucky’s shoulder, their chests pressed together. Bucky’s hands came immediately to Clint’s back, tracing up and down his spine slowly with no discernable pattern. 

“This okay to do here, in front of all these people?” Clint asked, unable to stop himself. To his surprise, Bucky chuckled. 

“It’s more than okay with me, s’long as it’s okay with you. I figure if we’re gonna move out of the Tower and maybe into a place like this someday, to keep all those rescue animals we’ve been talking about, people are gonna talk anyway. Might as well get ‘em talking now. I’m sick of hiding in the shadows, honestly, so this? People knowing about us? It’s all smooth, sweetheart. It’s whatever.”

It was Clint’s turn to let out a sigh of contentment, any residual anxiety releasing all at once. He peppered Bucky’s throat with kisses. 

“Yeah, babe. Fuck ‘em if they don’t like it. It’s whatever.”

*

At the end of the day, the team raised 2.3 million dollars for animal shelters and rescues, all of the animals were adopted, and Bucky showed up at Clint’s doorway with a stack of clothes, a litter box, and some cat food in his arms, Tripod riding along in the hood of his sweatshirt. Lucky grumbled about the intrusion a bit, Tripod rubbed along every possible surface to mark everything as her own, and Clint cleared out a drawer in his dresser for Bucky’s things.


End file.
